white police cars, a considerable display. He noticed,
and yet took no notice. He had come to look once more, as he had often done
before, at the sublime painting, Job Visited by His Wife at the Musée of Epinal. He parked his car and went in.
He was
well known to the receptionist who gave him a sunny greeting as he passed the
desk.
‘No
schoolchildren to-day,’ she said. Sometimes when there were school-groups or
art-college students in the gallery Harvey would turn away, not even attempting
to see the picture. But very often there were only one or two visitors.
Sometimes, he had the museum to himself; he was already half-way up the stairs
when the receptionist told him so; she watched him approvingly, even
admiringly, as he ran up the staircase, as if even his long legs, when they
reached the first turning of the stairs, had brought a touch of pleasure into
her morning. The dark-blue custodian with his hands behind his back as he made
his stately round, nodded familiarly as Harvey reached the second floor; as
usual the man went to sit patiently on a chair at the other end of the room as
Harvey took his usual place on a small bench in front of the picture.
The
painting was made in the first part of the seventeenth century by Georges de La
Tour, a native of Lorraine. It bears a resemblance to the Dutch candlelight
pictures of the time. Its colours and organisation are superb. It is extremely
simple, and like so much great art of the past, surprisingly modern.
Job visité
par sa femme: To Harvey’s mind there was much more
in the painting to illuminate the subject of Job than in many of the lengthy
commentaries that he knew so well. It was eloquent of a new idea, and yet,
where had the painter found justification for his treatment of the subject?
Job’s
wife, tall, sweet-faced, with the intimation of a beautiful body inside the large
tent-like case of her firm clothes, bending, long-necked, solicitous over Job.
In her hand is a lighted candle. It is night, it is winter; Job’s wife wears a
glorious red tunic over her dress. Job sits on a plain cube-shaped block. He
might be in front of a fire, for the light of the candle alone cannot explain
the amount of light that is cast on the two figures. Job is naked except for a
loin-cloth. He clasps his hands above his knees. His body seems to shrink, but
it is the shrunkenness of pathos rather than want. Beside him is the piece of
broken pottery that he has taken to scrape his wounds. His beard is thick. He
is not an old man. Both are in their early prime, a couple in their thirties.
(Indeed, their recently-dead children were not yet married.) His face looks up
at his wife, sensitive, imploring some favour, urging some cause. What is his
wife trying to tell him as she bends her sweet face towards him? What does he
beg, this stricken man, so serene in his faith, so accomplished in argument?
The
scene here seemed to Harvey so altogether different from that suggested by the
text of Job, and yet so deliberately and intelligently contemplated that
it was impossible not to wonder what the artist actually meant. Harvey stared
at the picture and recalled the verses that followed the account of Job’s
affliction with boils:
And he took him a potsherd to scrape himself withal;
and he sat down among the ashes.
Then said his wife unto him, Dost thou still retain thine
integrity? curse God, and die.
But he said unto her, Thou speakest as one of the
foolish women speaketh. What? shall we receive good at the hand of God, and
shall we not receive evil? In all this did not Job sin with his lips.
But
what is she saying to him, Job’s wife, in the serious, simple and tender
portrait of Georges de La Tour? The text of the poem is full of impatience,
anger; it is as if she is possessed by Satan. ‘Dost thou still retain thine
integrity?’ She seems to gloat, ‘Curse God and die.’ Harvey recalled that one
of the standard commentators has suggested a special interpretation,
and yet took no notice. He had come to look once more, as he had often done
before, at the sublime painting, Job Visited by His Wife at the Musée of Epinal. He parked his car and went in.
He was
well known to the receptionist who gave him a sunny greeting as he passed the
desk.
‘No
schoolchildren to-day,’ she said. Sometimes when there were school-groups or
art-college students in the gallery Harvey would turn away, not even attempting
to see the picture. But very often there were only one or two visitors.
Sometimes, he had the museum to himself; he was already half-way up the stairs
when the receptionist told him so; she watched him approvingly, even
admiringly, as he ran up the staircase, as if even his long legs, when they
reached the first turning of the stairs, had brought a touch of pleasure into
her morning. The dark-blue custodian with his hands behind his back as he made
his stately round, nodded familiarly as Harvey reached the second floor; as
usual the man went to sit patiently on a chair at the other end of the room as
Harvey took his usual place on a small bench in front of the picture.
The
painting was made in the first part of the seventeenth century by Georges de La
Tour, a native of Lorraine. It bears a resemblance to the Dutch candlelight
pictures of the time. Its colours and organisation are superb. It is extremely
simple, and like so much great art of the past, surprisingly modern.
Job visité
par sa femme: To Harvey’s mind there was much more
in the painting to illuminate the subject of Job than in many of the lengthy
commentaries that he knew so well. It was eloquent of a new idea, and yet,
where had the painter found justification for his treatment of the subject?
Job’s
wife, tall, sweet-faced, with the intimation of a beautiful body inside the large
tent-like case of her firm clothes, bending, long-necked, solicitous over Job.
In her hand is a lighted candle. It is night, it is winter; Job’s wife wears a
glorious red tunic over her dress. Job sits on a plain cube-shaped block. He
might be in front of a fire, for the light of the candle alone cannot explain
the amount of light that is cast on the two figures. Job is naked except for a
loin-cloth. He clasps his hands above his knees. His body seems to shrink, but
it is the shrunkenness of pathos rather than want. Beside him is the piece of
broken pottery that he has taken to scrape his wounds. His beard is thick. He
is not an old man. Both are in their early prime, a couple in their thirties.
(Indeed, their recently-dead children were not yet married.) His face looks up
at his wife, sensitive, imploring some favour, urging some cause. What is his
wife trying to tell him as she bends her sweet face towards him? What does he
beg, this stricken man, so serene in his faith, so accomplished in argument?
The
scene here seemed to Harvey so altogether different from that suggested by the
text of Job, and yet so deliberately and intelligently contemplated that
it was impossible not to wonder what the artist actually meant. Harvey stared
at the picture and recalled the verses that followed the account of Job’s
affliction with boils:
And he took him a potsherd to scrape himself withal;
and he sat down among the ashes.
Then said his wife unto him, Dost thou still retain thine
integrity? curse God, and die.
But he said unto her, Thou speakest as one of the
foolish women speaketh. What? shall we receive good at the hand of God, and
shall we not receive evil? In all this did not Job sin with his lips.
But
what is she saying to him, Job’s wife, in the serious, simple and tender
portrait of Georges de La Tour? The text of the poem is full of impatience,
anger; it is as if she is possessed by Satan. ‘Dost thou still retain thine
integrity?’ She seems to gloat, ‘Curse God and die.’ Harvey recalled that one
of the standard commentators has suggested a special interpretation,
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